


Unspoken

by krabapple



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krabapple/pseuds/krabapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever this is, they don't talk about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through Season Four's _Miller's Crossing_. I'm not sure this is technically an episode tag, but it is most definitely all about the episode.

It's the line of John's mouth. The way one corner quirks up when he's trying not to laugh; the way both sides come up, mouth opening, a soft shape, when he laughs. Each smile has its own set of lines, secret symbols, ancient runes sharing their hidden meanings. A smirk usually means almost a pucker, with a line that curves up at the end like a hook. When John finds something really amusing, his lips part for just the briefest of moments, letting in air and letting out a breath of almost-laughter.

Ever since they stepped through the 'gate back to Earth, John's mouth has been more or less a straight line. His lips are still visible, but there's no movement otherwise. Not on the way to the hotel, not even as he and Ronon are changing, Ronon complaining the entire time. He tries to acknowledge Ronon's talk with a quirk of the lips; finds the best he can do is move his eyebrows toward his hairline. His lips remain still, no small crease between. Rodney's too caught up to notice, pacing anxiously, a bundle of nervous energy, occasionally stopping by the window to hover, vibrating like a tuning fork with guilt and worry.

Once they get to the house, he steps behind Madison without a word, letting Miller drag Rodney into the kitchen. Ronon is busy taking in the house as if it's a security risk, which John supposes it is; he can't really see Ronon -- Madison is showing John the picture she's been working on and he's trying to make the appropriate noises of admiration -- but he knows what Ronan is doing. By the time they've been there two minutes Ronon already knows the number of people in the house and outside in the yard. He's figured out how many they would need to take out in order to get out of the place; where he will work, where John will fight, probably even where McKay will stand simultaneously in and out of the way. Ronon knows where every possible exit in the house is, even the windows, even in parts of the house he hasn't been in, which is most of it. He's choreographed a dance of give and take, fists to faces and boots to knees and broken glass on the floor. John is listening to Madison continue on softly -- blue is Mommy's favorite color, like from _Blue's Clues_ \-- and he tries to offer her a smile. This one is hard, mouth still in a straight line, corners hooked up at the end like an afterthought. When Rodney comes out of the kitchen and shoos them away, John's lips disappear around his teeth, the line hardening against the fight he already knows he's lost.

They're watching some entertainment news show on the t.v. when Rodney calls. Well, more like Ronon is watching, fascinated and a bit disgusted at the same time while John sits in the chair next to the small table, his knee moving up and down, up and down until he puts a hand on his thigh to stop it. He's out of the chair like a rocket when Rodney calls, and he knows whatever it is is bad, it's a bad idea, just from the way Rodney breathes into the phone, from the tone of his voice, before Rodney even says anything. Of course, it _is_ a bad idea, phenomenally bad. This is the kind of thing he and Ronon are here to help with in the first place. John manages to keep his voice fairly calm, though he can tell by Ronon's look some of his anxiety is bleeding through. Ronon's out the door before John has even hung up.

He's out of the car, too, before John has even slowed down. Ronon was the first to spot the body, popping open the door and standing on the threshold while John's eyes caught up, his breath hitching in a way he hopes Ronon is too intent to hear. He doesn't think it's Rodney, thinks he would know the outline of Rodney's body on the ground, and he's right -- it's not Rodney. That fact only makes him feel slightly better as he grimaces, bites his bottom lip hard, mouth slightly softer under fear. Because if that's not Rodney, John already knows that Rodney is somewhere else, then, is _gone_ , and he knows better, knows that this was a bad idea in the first place. People who wear black uniforms and masks and point large weapons to take a small woman out of her own house aren't going to fool around goddammit, has Rodney learned nothing over the past few years? Suddenly John's pissed as he looks down, listens to the explanation, wonders what the fuck those two were thinking, taking off like that, without _him_. He knows the answer, of course, that Rodney couldn't wait, never does wait; that this time Rodney's impatience was fueled by guilt as much or more as by fear. John's been fueled by those things, too, more times than he wants to think about, and he's not quite ready to admit that this is quickly turning out to be another one. But his sympathy isn't much comfort when John can feel the vibration of his own guilt in his wrists, in the way he holds his gun, in his teeth.

John hears the words later, hears "we're gonna find these guys," his own internal monologue pretty much screaming, "No, no you're not." His whole body is hard now, ridged, arms crossed, mouth a firm, grim line, lips thinning and disappearing. He sneaks a look at Ronon, sees his own thoughts reflected back, that the people they are working with, the people they are supposed to help, who are supposed to help Rodney and Jeannie, don't have the first real clue, and he doesn't even wonder when he started to doubt other people like that -- maybe he always has, or maybe now he figures that people who haven't seen the Wraith or fought Replicators or dealt with the Genii have no idea about evil, greed, or even stupidity. Either way he has to excuse himself, feels himself trembling as he stalks down the hall. He finds the men's room, washes his hands, cups his palms and fills them with cool water; he splashes water over his face, letting a few stray drops dribble down his neck into the collar of his shirt. He's wearing a suit, for christsakes, his reflection staring back at him as if at a stranger. Then he stops, turns, hits the blow dry machine with a fist, hard enough to open cracks on his knuckles. When that's not enough John kicks the wall, four, five times, until he's at least breathing hard, letting air fill his lungs until he can almost ignore the ache underneath his ribs.

Ronon goes to get food, but John can't eat, his stomach in knots, his gut churning like it's trying to eat him from the inside out. He understands Ronon's plight; it's his, too, in a way. He's good with his mind but he's better with his hands. He knows his place on his team, on Atlantis, and pushing paper isn't it. Still, John rubs his eyes with his fists, tries to stay focused, to use whatever mental energy he has left that isn't being spent on Rodney and Jeannie, wondering what they're doing, if they are alive or dead, hurt or safe. He sighs and picks up a highlighter, going back to the paper he was looking at, and then the next one and the next one, until finally he can trace the bright yellow line all the way to a source.

When they get there, John takes the first two guards out himself, one with an elbow under the chin and the other with a stun charge. No reason for anyone to die if they don't have to, but that idea doesn't quite quench the fury starting to boil in John's chest. Ronon's already down the hall, skidding with amazing grace around the corner, and John follows, the layout of the building memorized. They clear corridor after corridor, room after room; no one ever puts their hostages on the bottom floors and John is beginning to think that's a real pain in the ass by the time they come to a door they can't open. Ronon blasts the electric pad with his gun and they're in, stepping carefully into a quiet and empty hallway. _Close_ , John thinks, but it's still three more rooms until they find Rodney and Jeannie,soldiers following in their wake. John steps in as close as he can to Rodney, even feels the fabric of their sleeves rub together, but Rodney doesn't even notice, barely even notices John in the room at all, eyes wide and skittering, still talking to someone else.

"Daring rescue and all," John says, tries to make it sound sardonic, but once the words are out his throat tenses, closes, as if trying to bring them back and bring up instead other words John can't say.

He doesn't even see Rodney after, not really; Rodney apparently has better things to do, and while John objectively acknowledges that fact, knows how important saving Jeannie's life is, it still stings. John's chosen this life for them, he knows it, chosen it, all of it, but it doesn't stop him from wanting more, or less, or just _something_. They stick him in some office now that his part is over, and John tries hard to be a grown man and not feel discarded.

He's surprised when Rodney comes in, and his mouth immediately swings upward, as if to smile, or kiss, but something makes him pause. He stops in front of Rodney as Rodney chokes words out that John barely understands. So John has to come up with words of his own, substitutions, pale imitations of the originals, words that mean both the same and completely different things. _You're an invaluable member of my team (You're my whole life)_ and _I can't (How can you even ask me?)_ and _I can't (I can't)_. But Rodney doesn't understand; he's _angry_. Abstractly John knows why but if he has to choose between Rodney and Jeannie he'll choose Rodney, every time, _every time_ , and he doesn't feel badly about it. He wants Jeannie to live but he doesn't want Rodney to die, and that's just the way it _is_. But Rodney doesn't get it, and he argues, and then he leaves. He leaves, and John feels like he's _failed_ , and he doesn't even know what he did wrong.

He knows what he's doing wrong when he starts taking pictures out, putting them on the table. He knows what he was doing wrong every moment before that, from the moment his heart started beating faster at the very idea. He tries not to feel guilty and barely makes it there, lips pressed together tightly.

John makes himself watch so that at least someone will honor the sacrifice.

Again, Rodney doesn't have the time, has better things to do. John goes back to the office they gave him and writes a mission report, drives back to the hotel alone, Ronon staying to hover over the Wraith, just in case. John doesn't try to talk him out of it.

He's up, almost finished packing, when a key turns in the lock. John had slept for a few hours, showered and shaved. He doesn't need to wait for Rodney or Ronon to go back to Atlantis; Rodney will likely put in for some leave and stay for a while, and Ronon knows how to find his way home. John's expecting Ronon, almost lobs a pack of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine at the door before realizes it's Rodney instead. He turns back to finish zipping up his bag and hears the door snick shut.

When John turns back around, Rodney's still standing in the same spot just in front of the door. He looks exhausted, eyes bleary and red shot, stubble shadowing his face.

"She's my sister," he says, voice weary and defiant at the same time.

John nods. "Yeah." He can feel the internal struggle, has felt it since Rodney walked through the door. He fights it down but still, just this one time: "And you're my." He stops, not finishing the sentence, not knowing _how_ to finish it. Whatever this is, they don't talk about it. Not with others, not even with themselves. It's mostly his own damn hang ups, John knows, about himself, about feelings, about the military and his job. Usually it's okay; they know each other well enough, read each other like they have a secret language, which maybe they do, so that a smile here or a nod there can say in public what John rarely even says to himself. And what they can't say with those things they can usually easily say in bed, a touch under the ribs or a kiss to the collarbone, and that's always been good enough for them.

Nothing's been good enough this time. John shakes his head, makes to turn away, but Rodney catches his arm, holds on.

"That's what this is about?" Rodney asks.

Half of John wants to laugh, the question seems so absurd. He shakes his head again, mouth shut tight, a grim line.

Rodney does laugh, and it's not entirely mirthless. "I'm in mortal peril almost every week," he says.

John's mouth opens, almost of its own volition. "Yeah, but you don't usually ask me to let you kill yourself."

"Yes, most of the time other people are lining up to do it for me," Rodney shoots back. John shakes his arm free of Rodney's grip, suddenly so angry he takes a step back just so he won't be tempted to hit what is in reach, Rodney included. He feels his jaw set at just about the same time Rodney's mouth opens.

"Oh," Rodney says.

John charges forward, not speaking. This time Rodney steps back, hits the front of the dresser, has nowhere else to go; his mouth is still open when John dips his head, presses the line of his mouth against Rodney's lips. Rodney's mouth falls open a little farther, but John's doesn't, his hands fisting into the front of Rodney's sweatshirt, dragging him even closer. Rodney finally puts some effort into it, kisses back, lips working against John's. Rodney's tongue slips in and out, tiny attempts to open John's mouth underneath his. Rodney keeps kissing, lets his hands fall to John's waist, pulling his standard black shirt out of his uniform pants, his fingertips swirling little patterns onto John's belly as he does so; he circles his hips against John's once, slowly.

Finally, John's mouth opens, and his tongue doesn't hesitate, reaches out to taste Rodney -- coffee, a tang of cinnamon, _Rodney_.

"There," Rodney says when he breaks away, placing a kiss on John's throat. "There."

John leans his forehead against Rodney's, mouth relaxed for the first time in days.


End file.
